


Interlude: The Final Gift

by Dawnshadow



Series: Two Scions Walk Into a Bar.... [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Artistic License: The Echo, Echo Flashbacks, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Hypnosis, Missing Scene with a Heavy Dash of Headcanon, Spoilers: Let's Just Say 3.4 to be safe, Urianger is in Way Over His Head, You Didn't Think He Really Walked Through Coerthas In Sandals Did You?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 22:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnshadow/pseuds/Dawnshadow
Summary: "'Cross sand and snow have I journeyed," Urianger lied. This is how he really got to Ishgard bearing Moenbryda's gift—a tale of a complex dance of manipulation and counter-manipulation, of memory and fate, of the search for truth lying at the heart of stars, and of the blessings bestowed by a shattered god.





	Interlude: The Final Gift

"Traveling, Archon?"

Urianger had almost become accustomed to the Emissary appearing unannounced—although, after the first incident, he had at the very least stopped walking in through the front door. Urianger put his satchel down before turning to face him. "Yes. The spell we discussed demands further research, and I fear the only place I might find that knowledge is the Sharlyan colony. There was a vast library there, open only to those of the Motherland. When the settlement was abandoned most of its works were left there intact, though guarded to keep the knowledge within safe. I have little doubt that I will find what I need there, and believe that I can find my way through the wards, as one once permitted within."

"And returning to the motherland is not an option?" Elidibus asked, curiosity clear in his tone.

"I am a heretic, in their eyes."

"How so?"

"To share knowledge with outsiders is anathema. My master faced—and proudly accepted-- exile for breaking that taboo and sharing what he knew freely, and I but follow in his footsteps." He frowned. "Where the sharing of knowledge is concerned, at least. Even now, in sharing the knowledge of this library's existence with thee, I violate that taboo." He shook his head. He followed in knowledge. But what would his master think of the path Urianger now walked? Knowledge, salvation, hope—those were all virtues Louisoix had stood for, sacrificed himself for, suffered for. Maybe he would have thought it worth the price, knowing what ends Urianger sought.

"How many scholars could have been educated there, but for their mother's homeland? How much further would our knowledge have progressed? Nevertheless, they share not these views, and I would find no welcome among them. Which leaves the colony. Alas, the aetherytes that once studded the region are decommissioned, and so I must make most of the journey on foot."

"Ah. But the matter is pressing—each day that passes is another day closer to the First being lost." Elidibus considered him. "There is a faster way, if you'll allow it." That was just the answer Urianger had hoped for.

He kept his tone neutral, wary. "Thou doth mean teleportation. Ascians require no aetherytes to light the way through the Sea, as we do. Is it possible that thou couldst take a mortal alongside thee, unharmed?"

"But of course." He looked oddly… smug. "However, even our blessings have their limitations. Namely, even we cannot easily teleport to somewhere unfamiliar to us, and I would not risk such an endeavor with time being so scarce, now. I could only take you directly if you provided me the means to familiarity. Allow me to use the Echo to see your memories of this library, and I will bear you there, there to fulfill your fate."

Urianger hadn't anticipated that. "That is outside of our understanding of the Echo. It comes when it wills and shows what it is wont to show. It cannot be directed or focused."

"Your understanding of the Echo is limited, and my experience with it vast. I am not as driftwood upon the Echo's waves, as Hydaelin's Champion is."

Urianger shifted in his chair. Considering. "What wilt thou see? How much of my memory will thy dark visions reveal?"

"Your surface thoughts and memories will guide my visions. If you keep your mind focused and He permits it, I should see your memories of the library. If not…" He shrugged, the motion, as always, elegant. "I will see what your unfocused mind chooses to show me."

The thought of the Ascian picking through memory was unnerving. But what choice did he have? If he was to save the First—assuming, of course, that there really was a First— he needed more information. Modifying the summoning ritual had been his idea, although he suspected that the Emissary had intended for him to suggest this solution—one that _required_ the participation of an arcanist highly skilled in the creation of novel spells— all along. Among the greatest strengths of arcanima was its efficiency; it used very little aether, to great result. While Ascian magic could—the Emissary claimed-- call spirits (even from across shards!) the aether requirements to sustain each Champion in conjured flesh using Ascian techniques would be like unto that required to sustain a primal—with five gathered, all too swiftly a disaster (if not outright Calamity) in the making. And for fear of the devastation allowing the Ascian to summon them with his magic alone would cause, he had been trapped in this scheme.

That his collaboration served to ensnare him further was doubtlessly also part of the Emissary's plan.

"This is… acceptable." He would need tolerate the intrusion, mind focused, were he to continue to play the role he had accepted in this production. "I will need another day before I am ready to travel—I must prepare the Scions stationed here for my absence."

"Very well. I shall return on the morrow. Prepare your mind as well as your order, Archon." And he was gone, shadow-kissed ather dissipating like fog in sunlight.

Urianger sighed and returned to his task. The warm Ishgardian clothing he'd ordered still lay spread over the bed; he'd planned to glamour it ere he departed, but there were more important things, now. Leaving orders, checking on research…

….unfinished business. Something he'd put off for far too long. A hamper in the corner of the room, the battle axe that Urianger struggled to so much as lift leaning against the wall next to it. It was time. If the price to save a world—if the accursed role he had chosen to play in it-- was as he feared, he would one day soon never again be welcome in the Waking Sands.

It amazed Urianger that there were ever yet more tears to shed, ever more memories to visit. But as he made his way through her effects, he found ever the more unearthed, until he'd reached the bottom of the last satchel. And there… and there….

"Moenbryda." His voice was barely a whisper. "Thy last gift is at last revealed. Were that I was not a fool, to leave it undisturbed for so long." Would that he had known what treasure she had left. Would that he had known what, in sooth, he had agreed to just bells before. He'd almost missed it, wrapped in a spare tunic as it had been. A second, priceless prism of pure white auracite.

The champion would need this, and soon. The Emissary _must not_ know of it—but without his aid, Urianger would doubtlessly arrive far too late. But how, at this juncture, to escape the pact he'd made without making the First a sacrifice? How to prevent the Emissary's Echo from revealing the means by which the Champion had eliminated a soul meant to know no end, even whilst submitting to having his memories probed, the barriers of his soul weakened?

A focused mind. If the Ascian had spoken no lie, all Urianger had to do was _not think about white auracite_. And pray that the broken shadow that lay behind this Echo did not find that memory despite his efforts.

"An interesting choice." The Emissary was outright smirking. "Dark robes suit you well."

Urianger frowned at that comment, unsure if he thought too much into what it implied. "We travel to the north; it is fully appropriate attire." And these were certainly warm—on the edge of uncomfortable, even this far under the sun-beaten sands. "I had not time to illusion them to match mine characteristic attire." Yes. Think about robes. The weight, the warmth. Those thoughts were safe. Not the—not the gift, the treasure. Robes.

"Perhaps you may yet be persuaded to leave them as they are. Now… you are prepared?"

"I am." He wasn't. "As much as one may be for such an endeavor."

"Good. This will be easier if I make physical contact. Please, sit."

Urianger indulged him. And, without hesitation, the Emissary reached out and pressed the hood of the coat down. Urianger froze, not expecting to find himself so exposed, and shuddered at the feeling of metal-talon'd fingers pressed cool against his brow. "Focus on your library." His voice was low, unexpectedly warm.

Urianger remembered. Stacks taller than most houses, room after room full of priceless knowledge. A man could spend a lifetime and not explore half the wonders contained within... and this but a small satellite library compared to those of the Motherland. But then he felt it—the echo, cold and angular and harsh, probing, searching. He was drowning in it; prey in the darkness surrounded by predators who saw through the night with ease. He flinched away without meaning to, trembling as ice ran in his blood.

"Peace, Archon." he said, still calm, still soothing. Approaching him almost as if he were a startled coeurl kitten. "Peace. I mean you no harm."

"I know no harm is meant by this, but it is still something beyond my experience." He tried to keep the terror out of his voice, in vain. "Every impulse in me, every instinct wrought by my very nature, did demand I draw away, overwhelming sense and senses. Now that I am expecting it… I will steel myself. Try again. Please."

"Not yet. Breathe. Calm yourself."

Urianger nodded. Closed his eyes. Focused on some favored poetry, reciting the lines mentally, until he felt his heart slow.

"That's better. Now, let's try again." He reached out again, and this time Urianger closed his eyes and leaned in. Accepted. The library. The rich scent of leather bindings, the creak of floorboards underfoot. The—sharp cold—he concentrated. No, the warmth of the fires, and—books—whispered voices, hours upon hours spent curled in one corner or another, content, lost in imagination, and then he—he shivered, cold biting cutting _wrong_—

The feeling withdrew. He opened his eyes again. "Was that sufficient?"

"No—you were more focused that time, but your trepidation is overwhelming. This approach isn't going to work quickly enough. You're adapting and you would learn to accept without fear in time, but we can't spend bells practicing this until you grow accustomed to it. Would that I have had the foresight to prepare you sooner." The emissary didn't sound upset by this. "I'd like to try another approach, if you will."

Urianger nodded. "I would hear this idea."

"You are, by your very nature, a seeker of truth. Understanding will calm you. Relax, and let me speak to you of the nature of His blessing. It will help you accept it, allow your reason to conquer your base fear of the dark."

Which meant more information—critical information, at that, understanding more of how the Echo worked. (He wondered: had the Emissary deliberately offered him this, knowing he could not—would not— refuse it?) "This approach is acceptable."

"Good. Now, move to the bed. I would like to sit, rather than hover over you, and it'll be better for you to be comfortable."

It was true that he had little enough furniture here. Urianger nodded, then moved, sitting with his back against the wall. "What must I do?"

"Just listen, and resist the urge to debate— if you have questions, I will hear them later. In fact, I would enjoy hearing them and answering them later. You've a fascinating mind."

Urianger nodded. "I understand. Thou doth have my curiosity along with mine attention."

"Turn your focus to my words, for now; I will tell you when to remember for me again." The Emissary settled into the chair, then started to speak, his voice low, calm, steady. "For you—you, who have been taught only the will of the Mother—the dark is a strange and frightening thing. It is mortal instinct, only honed further by Her twisted teachings, to fear what is poorly understood. While your nature— as one who seeks truth— in part counteracts this, you are mortal yet, and bound by mortal limitations. Yet the dark is not something to be feared. It is an essential part of the natural order.

"There is danger in the darkness, yes, but also great beauty, great comfort." He reached out, then started to stroke Urianger's hair, clearly mindful of the talons. Slow, soothing. Urianger soon relaxed into it, his eyes closing. How long had it been since he'd allowed anyone so close? "You know such well, even if you do not yet realize it. The dark of the night, which brings sleep and peace to so many. The dark of ink, weaving imagination and memory into something solid and substantial, something that can be shared, treasured. The night sky, in which truth and destiny can be found. It is in darkness that dreams are born, in silence that the song is woven. Yes. You know this dark, Archon, the dark of prophets and dreamers; it calls to you, and oft have you answered.

"Now, if you would indulge me, imagine being outside, in the heat of the sun. It presses on your skin, a palpable weight. Yet there is little shelter in the desert, little rest from the searing rays." Urianger could imagine it, and did, vividly. He could feel the scorching heat. "And there, too, there is comfort to be found in the dark. Let me wrap you in His shade. Let me protect you from the searing light, and embrace you with gentle darkness." And Urianger felt it, the shade. And this time it was cool, comforting, driving away thoughts of burning sun. It was night and ink and dreams, and he sank into it, welcomed it with a quiet, content sigh. It would do him no harm.

"Mm, that _is_ effective. Still with me, Archon?"

_Yes_. He tried to find words, but they slipped through the night like falling stars, gone ere he could properly refine them. He finally nodded.

"Good. You please me, greatly, in this. Now, turn your thoughts back to your library. Dream for me, truth-seeker, and we will be of one mind."

_Urianger sat curled in a corner, nose-deep in a book of poetry. _

_In a book of fairy-tales._

_In a book of civil engineering._

_In a book, In another book. He'd spent countless bells curled in corners, on benches, on couches, lost in the past or the future, distant lands and lands nearby and worlds that only existed in mind and heart, and the memories blurred in their similarity, suffused through with a sense of joy and fascination and reverence for those who had come before and left wisdom and truth in their wake._

_Hunting through shelves, dusty tomes. _"How many shelves were there? Focus on them." _Lining the room, then… yes, there had been four rows of shelves in this room, each split to allow passage through the center, ends labeled with the contents that could be expected of each shelf. Tables—oak—in the corners, always stocked with paper and inkwells and pens._

_He was seated at one of those oak tables, studying. He reached for his pen and found only air. He frowned, confused for but a moment before he realized. He hadn't left his studies in bells, and he knew only one person who could take a pen from an inkwell positioned directly in front of him unnoticed._

_Thancred's laughter as he jumped down from atop one of the shelves and ran, quill in hand, only served as confirmation. Urianger sighed, grinning, and marked his page before standing. He was overdue for a break, anyway._

_Moenbryda smiled at him._

_Moenbryda—_

_….his moon had fallen. And in her wake he was broken. And now they were gone – could he have saved them? _

"Peace, my truth-seeker. Peace."

_Then gentle night surrounded him like a lullaby, still as an undisturbed lake, and he was lying in a grassy field as he watched the stars above him. There had been something—but now there was only peace, comfort, calm._

"There. There. It's all right, now. Remember when first you saw your library."

_He entered the library for the first time—the first of many—gawking at the endless rows of books, the possibilities that lie dormant within them filling him with wonder. Then the next room, then the next… were the gods to give him a dozen lifetimes, a hundred, he could not learn all that lay hidden within these tomes. But he could try._

_"Yes. That's exactly what it references. Well done." _

_Urianger beamed with pride... a smile that all too quickly fell. "But what is the purpose of it? Thou didst say time was as a river, and prophecy was seeing what is to come downstream. But even if we know, we cannot change the course of rivers."_

_"Can we, Urianger?" Louisoix looked distant for a moment, then took up a scrap of paper, writing down a title, author, shelf index. "Go. Bring that book to me."_

_Urianger did… managing to only gather two more on his way back in addition to the one. He placed it on the desk, and Louisoix opened it, turning to the index. "And this… this is why you should seek broad knowledge. Your understanding of prophecy—particularly when you begin to interpret that which has not already come to pass, which is not aided by the benefit of hindsight—is harshly limited by your understanding of the greater world. Without a broad base of knowledge, you might not place it in context. Read this."_

_He'd opened to a particular chapter, and Urianger began to read. Dry, technical information… but after a few minutes he realized. This was, literally, the means by which man may move a river, by way of diverting its course through magical shaping of the earth below it. His eyes widened under the goggles._

_"So it is with the future. Alone, stuck in the river, you may use your knowledge to maneuver, to avoid crashing upon the rocks. But the combined work of many… that may move rivers, may change the course of history entire." He smiled. "It is the work of those like you and I to show men where these rivers lie."_

_(Later—with bitter hindsight-- Urianger would realize the unspoken question his master asked of himself that day, along with its answer. Can one man, standing alone against calamity incarnate, change a river's course? Had Louisoix known—or suspected-- then his future's shape?)_

Urianger was cool and safe, in a room that was not the library, and stirred. 

"Welcome back," someone murmured.

Who—and then where he was and _who he was with_ came back to him. He jolted awake, realizing his soul had been in talons clenched, wincing at how bright the lanterns seemed now. What had he done, what had he allowed himself to do, in careless longing for comfort and peace? How much danger he had been in, his defenses reduced to naught? How much could the Ascian have done to him while he drowsed and dreamed in mesmerized lassitude, enchanted by whatever subtle spell he'd invoked? How much _had_ he done…?

"By what means was I ensorcelled?" he gasped, once he trusted his voice.

"I used no spell on you; I did nothing more than speak to you—as we speak even now— and use my Echo as I had before once you relaxed and were ready to accept it. Once you understood its nature, the Echo became comforting to you instead of terrifying, and your affinity for this gentle darkness won you over. Peace. You are unharmed. I saw nothing you did not choose to show me, nor did I take advantage of your trust." He smiled.

Urianger frowned, although the initial wave of panic had subsided at his measured words. "Dare I trust that thy words bear no deceit?""

"I have never lied to you, Archon, and I do not intend to begin now. Least of all about the nature of my god, which has been misrepresented on this star for so very long."

Urianger looked at him, trying to get his measure. He seemed as sincere as ever he'd been. So different from the others of his kind—of course, he was not a warrior. And Urianger knew well how one could tell a lie, even while speaking only literal truth. But today he'd been gentle, patient, reserved, respectful. Could he be trusted? Could any of his kind be?

"I have what I needed from you; you did very well." He stood, the chair's legs scraping over stone floor. "Take your time in fully waking, then ready yourself for the journey. I will come back for you once I'm sure of our destination and have cleared it of any lingering defenses."

It was nearly a quarter bell after the Emissary's departure that Urianger remembered the auracite, concealed in the bottom of his own packs. He'd managed it, somehow. The gift was safe. And soon he would be far from here, and close to Hydaelyn's Champion.

" 'Cross sand and snow have I journeyed," Urianger lied, "that I might deliver this gift unto thee." Urianger offered the Champion the auracite; with one hand he thwarted the Ascians, and with the other aided their schemes. The champion looked down at his sandals—confusion wrought clear on their face-- before accepting Moenbryda's final gift.

They didn't have to know about the glamor, and that his clothes were actually quite warm and comfortable, even in this cold. The Champion left soon after, and Urianger watched the airship until it was no longer distinguishable from clouds. That which one thinks a trifle in having, he mourns as treasure in the losing. If only he'd treasured the Scions more, the Champion more, in the time he'd walked with them. He turned back to the chocobo keeper, that he may return to his library. He had a ritual to prepare. He would help to invite darkness to this star, and in doing so bring salvation to another.


End file.
